


Ice-Cold, Now Boiling

by RenderedReversed



Series: Drenched [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: ...until there's not, Character Study, Depression, HP: EWE too, Harry's thoughts between In Ice-Cold Water and In Lukewarm Water, Harry-centric, M/M, POV First Person, Post-War, Side Story, Star-crossed, Tags Are Hard, This Is Not The Prequel It's a Side Story, canon compliant up to DH, distinction between Tom Riddle and Voldemort, like this is kinda sorta really sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-01
Updated: 2014-11-01
Packaged: 2018-02-23 11:37:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2546156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RenderedReversed/pseuds/RenderedReversed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He says he'll always be with me. Perhaps this is true, but for a soul that means something entirely different than to a human. I’m not sure if he’s aware of this difference—sometimes he seems all too acutely attuned to it, and other times it’s as if he’s forgotten. I…</p><p>He’s Tom Riddle, not Voldemort.</p><p>The thought is the only thing that has allowed me to love so freely.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ice-Cold, Now Boiling

**Author's Note:**

> AGAIN, THIS IS NOT THE PREQUEL TO IN LUKEWARM WATER.  
> THIS. IS. NOOOOOT--  
> the prequel to In Lukewarm Water.  
> The prequel is called In Ice-Cold Water, and it has not been finished or posted ANYWHERE. 
> 
> This oneshot side story is to help readers understand Harry's mindset between IICW and ILW, because I've received a lot of questions and comments like "what the hell is going on yo".

I think he's beautiful. The way he walks, confident; the way he speaks, self-assured. He really is my _other_ , my better even. He's so far away that I sprint, trying to catch up, but I never make it. There is an impossible distance between us, deceiving with its illusory gap, perhaps even spanning dimensions— _no._

It _is_ across dimensions.

And I look to him hopelessly, for all the sweet nothings he may say, all the pet names and affection he can give, all the warmth in his eyes when he looks at me—I know that, I know that too; what is it about me that enchants him so? I want to scream—he is beyond me, in a place I'll never quite reach.

Half and half. Of the realm of the dead, but existing on the plane of the living. Not a ghost, haunted by his fatal end, but pieces of a soul, alive in a whole different manner. And I wonder what the hell kind of sin I'd committed in my last life to deserve this—if that was how it went, what kind of nasty, unforgivable, inhuman action had I done previously to deserve this requited loved that would never amount to anything?

The love between a living human and half a soul of an insane man.

Death had suited Tom Riddle more than life ever had—blast the bitter truth that was—for in death he was free, and freedom gave access to all the things he had been too scared to feel. Unable to feel, with the overwhelming hatred and paranoia and scars. But he loved me now, when the _true_ him loathed me with a fury burning of one thousand _Cruciatus_.

And I loved him too. Despaired and joyed in it, breathed and suffocated in it, _lived_ and _died_ by it. By the _gods_ I loved him, and I didn't know what to do. It made it worse when he turned around and pulled that struggling me to him, momentarily bridging the gap and giving me this thrice damned hope for him and I.

 _Tom_ , I call him, in fire and in ice, in rage and in calm, in warmth and fragility. _Let me count the ways..._

He always smiles. Why, _why_ does he always _smile_ —!

...Because he knows. In the end, he knows of my love, can feel it like he can feel my hopes and fears. We are bonded in this way, so he knows and he smiles and he's so terribly _smug_ about it I can hardly stand another moment with him. But he takes my hand so I can't run away, walks beside me so I'm never alone, and gives me strength so I can live through this. Live through the assault of Lord Voldemort.

He is my guide to the end. Hopefully that end leads to my new beginning, _our_ new beginning, but such hope is a grim one. He leads me to the horcruxes, each and every one becoming part of him. I watch for change, _any_ change, but if they'd affected him any he was skilled enough to hide it from me, so I continued to fall deeper into my affections for him.

"Come now, precious," he says, not solid in his form but firm in his touch, "Rest. Tomorrow will be just as tiring."

He holds me, much like how he had when he first pulled me out of the pond. His touch is warm, but so is his magic—I know, am so very keenly aware of, the difference between us. No one else can see him. He can touch only _me_. The locket I have of his is his lifeline. He is bound to it, like only a soul could be. It is a hateful thing, for the only reason he loves me is because of this fact, this fact of what he is, and the only reason I know I will lose him comes from just the same.

I’m no seer, but I know _this_ like I know my own name.

He says he'll always be with me. Perhaps this is true, but for a _soul_ that means something entirely different than for a _human_. I’m not sure if he’s aware of this difference—sometimes he seems all too acutely attuned to it, and other times it’s as if he’s forgotten. I…

He’s Tom Riddle, not Voldemort.

The thought is the only thing that has allowed me to love so freely.

* * *

 

Despite being sensitive to time matters and understanding our parting would happen _eventually_ , I genuinely hadn’t believed it would be so… soon. No, _abrupt_. It was as if _this_ and _that_ were two independent ideas in my head, something that would never touch or connect. I hadn’t been in denial, I’d just grown comfortable.

It had been a long time since I’d cried like that.

Together. What did _together_ mean? I desperately wanted to know his definition. What did a soul consider _together_? Would we be together in memory, together in soul, or—

What?

Because he was leaving, I knew. I might not have _consciously_ understood that he was leaving, but there was a sense of finality in his words that I could only recognize looking back on them. And I looked back on them often.

Call me what you will—masochist, grieving, pathetic, _coward_ —but I wanted, no _needed_ some sort of assurance. I needed to know some part of him loved me and that part _hated_ Voldemort. I needed to know. I needed that justification, that complete estrangement of the two. I had never loathed Voldemort more than in those few months after his passing.

In my mind he took away Tom.

Tom was kind to me. Tom protected me. Tom _cared_. He had never left me, vowed to follow me—and the only reason that he wasn’t with me _then and now_ was because Voldemort had _wrenched him away_. Obviously, that wasn’t the truth—Tom had been the one to make the decision, and it wasn’t like a man could be _blamed_ for his own insanity, but… it made me feel better, thinking this way. I fell into this self-delusion so very easily, and no one seemed to try and _stop_ me either… I guess I thought everyone stopped caring.

Also untrue. But what I wanted then wasn’t for someone to _care_ , it was for someone to care like _Tom_ had. And no one could do that, because he was a soul piece and everyone else was a living person.

Whenever Tom had put me first, it felt… nice. Better than nice. For so long I’d been dragged, pushed aside, ignored, that good-intentioned _attention_ was new and wonderful and fulfilling. It attracted me like nothing else could manage. I think he began to worm himself into my heart that way, actually. It was hard to say.

For Tom, he had been with me forever. For me, it’d been only a month—one of the worst months of my life, true, but that’s what, thirty-one days? Only? Kind of quick for true love.

In this manner, doubting and cajoling myself, I grew out of my denial and stood on my own two feet again. Still, his memory haunted me. So many times, I wanted to—well, I just—it was—

I think it’s easy to understand what I mean, even though I can’t say it directly. I never did, the weight of my friends and family the main reason stopping me, but it was an ever-present thought. A suggestion. Never viable, but _always there_. And I don’t think I really wanted to get rid of it either, so I never told anyone.

They wouldn’t understand the sense of _safety_ it provided me. They would think I was mentally ill and in danger of hurting myself—which I wasn’t. Like I said, I never came _close_ to acting on it. It was just… there. And it was reassuring, because it was a way out, and I had a choice. I had to _choose_ if I wanted to go out that way. And I knew I would never choose it. No one was influencing that decision—it was mine, I could retract it whenever I wanted—it was just… just mine.

Like Tom.

To be honest, I wasn’t really scared of death. The idea of dying was something else entirely—dying was probably painful, _really_ painful—but disappearing? Ending in death? Yeah. That was okay. I didn't exactly have business I wanted to finish—didn't really have a goal. I lived through a _war_ , with relatively little loss compared to what it could’ve been. Those that I loved well were alive and content, starting their own families and so blindingly _happy_ sometimes I _had_ to look away.

But I wasn’t dying anytime soon, and I knew I couldn’t let my envy fester either.

To stave away the loneliness, I took in children. Children from muggle orphanages, with nowhere to go and no one to rely on. No one who told them _what they were_. I wanted to save them _before_ they became another Tom Riddle or Harry Potter, or even Voldemort. I didn’t want them to suffer. Somewhere between then and there I became Headmaster of Hogwarts—had a few dips into politics, but generally speaking I was much more active in the education scene. Hogwarts became home to many children under the age of eleven seeking refuge, that which I would never deny them.

Not like I had been denied. Not like Tom had.

Again and again, these memories haunted me, both the good and the bad as I walked the grounds and watched a new generation blossom. It was as if my life span was counted in _seasons_ rather than _years_ , and now that winter was coming to an end, spring arrived with a bounce in its step and innocence on the wings of a breeze.

A balm. I think it was a balm, for my heart or my soul I don’t know, but for _something_ of mine it was. I eased into the task of living, definite peace so strange a concept that there were times I needed to step back from the flow of traffic and just… _watch_.

I stood very still. Very silent. Time was passing, and I was paying my respects like a proper supplicant.

Of course, life was life—I was still very much alive and going about rather actively—gone was my depression, though my thoughts lingered on them as if they were lazing on a heated stone. I grew frustrated, just as I laughed and cried, smiled and _cared_. That was the difference—I _cared_. And that’s why no one noticed how I lived, always patiently waiting.

I didn’t know _what_ I was going to do when I died, only that I _would_ do something. There would be a step forward in whatever direction I was bound to go. Hopefully there would be some… _resolution_ between Voldemort and I, though at that point I expected little. In death I figured we would go our separate ways, as there would be no need to fight and hate anymore. What was done in life was done. Over. And whatever I had with Tom—

Whatever I had with Tom was over too. He no longer existed, in life or in death. It was only _I_ who remembered his existence and guarded that memory—only I kept him alive in the book of time, and that was how it should be. For some reason, I was content with suffering like that. It was a burden I took upon my shoulders wholeheartedly, and even to this day I am unsure _why_ … only that I did, and fully accepted that fact by the time of my death.

Voldemort and Tom, Tom and Voldemort.

My heart refused to love another. Loved to hate Voldemort, loved the pieces of that man’s soul to the point of nigh irreparable stupidity. I think I’d broken with him, actually—a simple statement, a simple _truth_. I hadn’t ever really been _all there_ , had I?

Voldemort and Tom. Tom and Voldemort.

Can I be blamed? Can anyone _blame me_? Seventy years— _seventy years_ of hating and loving and tiring of these emotions, seventy years of _watering them down_ , seventy years of waiting without knowing exactly what I’d been waiting _for_ … Seventy years of bravery and seventy years of courage and seventy years too long of living that life. Seventy years. Seventy years of my life—plus a few decades more of my inconsequential existence—was how long I lasted in being Harry Potter, Boy-Who-Lived.

So can anyone blame me? Am I at fault for finally, _finally_ taking the cowards’ way out and _refusing to acknowledge_ whatever silly thing my heart tells me _now_? Must I go over grief again, that agony again, for whatever little smudge of happiness I could grasp from it? I am _old_. The only thing that keeps my soul young is my inconsistent optimism and my ever-constant acceptance.

I am _old_.

And I am tired.

And I don’t want to go through having my heart chipped away at, turned to dust and sand for emotions I am _tired_ of fighting for. Not again—no no no. Not _again_. All I want is rest. An eternity and a day of rest, preferably. And then, maybe _then_ I’ll be ready to try the whole _living thing_ again. So don’t blame me. Don’t _blame me_ for _refusing to love_!

Tom and Voldemort. Voldemort and Tom.

The line blurs, and all I am left with is the man I’d always wished Tom Riddle would be.

But it’s too late.

I’ve already died too many deaths, _lived_ too many deaths.

And I apologize, to him and to myself, because now it is _I_ who am wholly unworthy of him.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I heavily dislike First Person PoV, but I felt in this case I could not have done this any other way. As you can see, nothing really happens--just Harry sort of vaguely narrating his moments with Tom and his thoughts. So yeah. First person, totally necessary.
> 
> Hope I made it decent though :P. I'm not used to writing in first person.
> 
> Also: Happy Halloween! Originally I planned to write another installment to the Mahou Shoujo AUs for the holiday, buuut I kind of failed doing that, so here, have this completely unrelated to Halloween side story to Drenched instead!


End file.
